Scheisshaus Luck (23 page)

I rejoined my companions on rubbery legs. I ducked the reaper again. But did I have any real reason to be thankful? With a frigid winter almost on top of us, there was no possibility of putting on weight and regaining strength before the next SS officer looked me over. I was a condemned man who had been given only a short reprieve. If my ‘‘selection’’ was inevitable, then wouldn’t it be better to get it over with than endure another month or two of pain and suffering before they pulled my card?

A few days later they rounded up the ‘‘selected.’’ Dressed only in their tattered shirts, the chosen from the
Blocks
piled into the back of a truck. They had been told the same old lie—‘‘You’re being taken to a rest camp to recover’’—even though the Nazis knew that every ‘‘selected’’
Ha¨ftlinge
was well aware of the truck’s destination.

They weren’t going to take a chance of anything disrupting the steady flow of traffic into their gas chambers. Sitting on the truck bed, silent and shivering, most of the men didn’t care anymore what was going to happen to them.

‘‘Don’t worry!’’ a
Kapo
yelled as the truck pulled away. ‘‘Soon you’ll be warm, even too warm!’’

From that moment I was determined to do whatever I had to do to make sure my card wouldn’t end up in that officer’s pocket again. My bones weren’t going to stoke their fires. And, I fantasized, if my goose was cooked, then I would make sure one of those SS

pricks joined me.

♦ ♦ ♦

In the bunk below me slept Moishe, a yellow triangle from Yugosla-via who had been scooped up by the fascist Croatian militia. He was PART II | AUSCHWITZ

157

in his twenties with the face of an adolescent and was a big shot in the camp’s black market, thanks to his connections with
Ha¨ftlinge
in the Canada
Kommando
. His cohorts called him Moi. Because of his salesmen in
Kommandos
that worked inside the plant buildings, Moi was profiting handsomely from the civilian employees. He was also the
Stubendienst
’s assistant. The
Stubendienst
’
s
cut insured his eyes were closed to the steady flow of visitors Moi had every night, since
Ha¨ftlinge
weren’t supposed to enter other
Blocks
.

Word passed that we would be receiving new shirts. We were supposed to exchange shirts every month, but were lucky if we got fresh ones every three months. My
Block
was in a mild state of excitement. The exchange was a lottery. This late in the year, those trading in their heavy wool shirts stood to lose badly and those with light, cotton shirts had everything to gain. The unfortunate
Ha¨ftling
who had had his shirt stolen would simply be passed over. Shirts were a much sought after commodity on the camp’s black market.

One could exchange a good shirt for an old, mended one and a loaf of bread with a Polish civilian factory worker because they had difficulty getting any clothing.

After receiving my new shirt, a wool one, I went to my bed to put my cap under my pillow, as I did every evening before eating.

To my astonishment, I found a roll of bills lying there. Someone must have put it there thinking it was Moishe’s bed. My heart pounded with excitement. I looked about. No one was paying any attention to me. I thrust the wad into my shoe. Not wanting any evidence that I had been to my bed, I stuffed my cap into my pocket and slipped into the soup line. Ordinarily I would have checked the levels of the barrels. You wanted to step up when the barrel was almost empty because you stood a greater chance of getting a potato or chunk of cabbage. That night I had only one thought—getting out of the barracks as fast as possible so I could count my loot.

Somebody’s god continued to send good fortune the wrong way because I ended up with a full ladle of thick soup as well.

After eating, I ducked behind the
Block
and counted the money.

I was holding 580 marks, a treasure that could change my fate. But 158

SCHEISSHAUS LUCK

there were problems. How was I going to change five one-hundred mark bills? Where would I hide the money? If caught with such a large sum, it was the
Stehbunker
for sure, and possibly the rope. I couldn’t keep the money with me. Moi or one of his cronies would surely search me.

I ran to Hubert’s
Block
. He nearly fell over when he saw the bills. Hubert knew a pot-washer who was selling a ladle of thick soup for ten marks. I decided that for the next fifty-eight days Hubert and I were going to have full bellies. For the first time, I could truly envision a return trip to Nice.

Moi was sitting on his bed buttering slices of bread when I returned. Obviously, he wasn’t aware of the screw-up yet. I stretched out on my bed, letting my legs hang down on either side. For 580

marks, Moi must have sold an overcoat—and one in fine condition, at that. What would he do when he found out that the money had disappeared? I mused. No question he would come at me, but how?

Like a sly fox or an enraged bear? I knew there was a chance he would send a crony to beat a confession out of me, but that would be his last resort. With no tracks leading to Hubert, if I played it right I could deflect all suspicion.

A string of Moi’s furtive traders streamed in and out. ‘‘Moi?’’ a reedy voice called out in Yiddish from the
Block
entrance. ‘‘
Wie bist
do
?’’ (Where are you?)

‘‘
Komm hier
,’’ Moishe ordered.

A little Jewish fellow, slightly humpbacked and with the type of face the Nazis venomously caricaturized in
Der Stu¨rmer
, hurried over. He sat down on the edge of Moishe’s bed. They began to talk in soft whispers, but their conversation was quickly punctured with Yiddish curses. The visitor got up and stared at my bed as I pretended to sleep. It was hard to keep a smile off my face. He started to slip his hand under my pillow when the curfew bell sounded, which gave me an excuse to wake. The little fellow scurried out of our
Block
.

That night I visited the piss pail three times, and each time I PART II | AUSCHWITZ

159

returned I could tell my mattress had been searched. Moishe had been thorough. I don’t think he slept at all that night.

Returning from the plant the next evening I discovered a neatly folded, red-and-white checkered shirt under my pillow. The shirt looked brand new and would have fetched a hefty sum from a civilian. Moi, that sly fox, sure set his trap with delicious bait. Obviously he figured I would store the shirt in the same spot I had hid the money. I left the shirt under my pillow and nonchalantly went to get my soup.

While I ate I kept an eye on my bed, but no one approached it.

Where was Moi? When my bowl was licked clean, I went looking for him. He was sitting on the steps of the
Block,
diligently cleaning his comfortable leather shoes. Why not have some fun with this
schmuck
, I thought, and headed into the latrine. Moishe followed at a distance. He sure figured me for an idiot. I sat in there as if I were constipated, and even pretended to sleep. It must have driven him crazy. I was struck with a masterstroke of an idea and quickly returned to the
Block
.

Grabbing the shirt, I went to Wilhelm’s quarters. I pushed back the curtain that hung in his doorway. He was in the midst of playing cards with the
Kapos
. I swallowed hard. This wasn’t the most oppor-tune moment to disturb my
Blocka¨lteste
.

‘‘
Was willst du, Speckja¨ger
?’’ (What do you want, bacon hunter?)

‘‘I have a present for you.’’

‘‘Show me!’’

I unfolded the shirt.

‘‘How much?’’ he demanded suspiciously. In Auschwitz everything had a price.

‘‘I said it’s a present.’’

I tossed the shirt onto the table and turned heels. A livid Moishe was standing by our bunk. It was an expensive backfire for him, and it got me clean off the hook.

An hour later, Wilhelm gave me half a loaf of bread.

‘‘
Hier, Muselmann, du brauchst mir nicht dankbar sein, du wa¨schst
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SCHEISSHAUS LUCK

meine Hemden gut
.’’ (Look Muslim, you don’t have to be grateful to me. You really wash my shirts well.)

Soon, the whole
Block
knew about the gift, and my companions labeled me an ass-kissing idiot. I couldn’t have given a shit what they said or thought. I had a full stomach for fifty-eight days and wouldn’t have to worry about the next ‘‘selection.’’

♦ ♦ ♦

Christmas and the New Year passed with the Allies encircling Germany. Because of the constant bombing, the delivery of raw materials by rail was increasingly sporadic. Factory output plummeted.

The
Kapos
struggled to keep us busy with meaningless, but still physically draining tasks. Rumors circulated that the Soviets had launched a new offensive and that their arrival was imminent. At night we could see a reddish luminescence on the eastern horizon and hear the distant thunder of heavy guns, but the only source for reliable information had dried up. I had not seen a POW at Buna for a while. I wasn’t even sure if they were still in Auschwitz. At the time of the first snowfall, all the Soviet
Ha¨ftlinge
were marched out of the camps. We heard they had been moved into Germany. A few days later, the Polish
Ha¨ftlinge
followed. Every passing day we wondered if we were going to be evacuated, liberated, or exterminated. The SS had destroyed the gas chambers in November, but we all knew they had other means to quickly rid themselves of us.

After roll call one freezing morning, we assembled into our
Kommandos
as usual. But as the band launched into its first military march, news came that we weren’t going to Buna until the fog lifted. Surely it wasn’t the light morning fog that was keeping us from leaving, I thought. We had gone to the plant when it was much thicker. All morning we stamped around the Appelplatz, trying to keep warm. As the hours crawled by the most fantastic speculations took shape in our overheated imaginations.

‘‘We’re going to be evacuated tonight.’’

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‘‘The Soviets have Auschwitz encircled, and they’re going to shell this place until nothing stands.’’

‘‘The
Boches
are going to wipe us all out with flame throwers.’’

‘‘No, no, they signed an armistice.’’

Toward afternoon, we were told to return to our
Blocks
. The next morning the assembly bell failed to ring. The sudden shock of change made me nervous. Twelve months of a strict, daily routine had created an odd sense of comfort—dare I even say, a sense of control—that had now been yanked out from under me. I walked aimlessly around the camp. The guard towers were still manned, but the
Kapos
were out of sight. They knew this idle time could spark one of the milling groups of
Ha¨ftlinge
into a vengeful mob.

I looked toward the east. The Soviets were closer. The sounds of battle were now tremendous hammer blows. I figured they would be here in two or three days, but would we? Would I get the chance to go freely through those gates? And if I did, should I search for Stella? She hadn’t entered my thoughts for some time. If she were alive, I thought, would she be capable of caring about me anymore?

My heart had become callous, but still I held a thread of hope for us. Why couldn’t she?

Prisoners ran past me. Without knowing why, I followed them across the yard to a growing mob trying to break into the clothing warehouse. With an old post as a battering ram, a gang of
Ha¨ftlinge
smashed in the door. We all rushed in.

The warehouse was dark and thick with the smell of mothballs and disinfectant. I groped my way through a corridor created by massive piles of clothing in hopes of finding something to insulate myself from the January blizzards. Running my hands along the piles, I recognized the rough material of our striped ‘‘pajamas.’’

Near the far end of the building, my hand fell upon a handle that seemed to belong to a suitcase. I yanked and then found myself buried under an avalanche of valises. Feeling as if I had been bashed by twenty
Kapos
, I struggled out from under the luggage and ‘‘organized’’ a suitcase that I could carry with ease.

162

SCHEISSHAUS LUCK

Machine gun fire exploded from an adjacent guard tower. Bullets pierced the walls and shattered windows. I threw myself flat on my face as most of the others rushed toward the door in a screaming panic, trampling the dead and wounded. Light seeped through dangling shutters. When the shooting stopped, I jumped to my feet and ran to a window opposite the guard tower. I looked out. There was no one around. I threw the suitcase through the glass and jumped out after it.

Bullets whistled by my ears, slamming into the warehouse wall behind me. Terrified, I bent over as far as I could and rushed for the nearest shelter, the latrine. A strong shock nearly wrenched the suitcase from my grasp. I spun around, thinking someone was trying to steal my bounty, but there was no one there. I barreled into the latrine, slammed the door, and crouched breathless behind my brown leather suitcase.

When the machine guns fell silent again, I cracked open the door. The yard was deserted except for a few bodies. I closed the door. It was time to open my treasure chest. It looked new except for the hole on one side, which I could easily stick my thumb into.

There was a key tied to the handle, but the clasps weren’t locked.

Inside were cozy wool sweaters and cardigans. I layered them on me, making sure after each one that my ‘‘pajama’’ top still fit. These were the first civilian clothes I had put on since my arrival. There had been times that I wore the same ‘‘pajamas’’ for three months—

clothes made hard and brittle from filth. The clean, soft tickle of angora against my skin was overwhelmingly seductive. Some of the sweaters had odd moth holes in them, but I couldn’t care less.